


first and only

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dacey,” he moans happily, admiringly, his voice rough as sand. “Are all women as beautiful as you?” She smiles at the sweet question, throws her heavy braid over her shoulder and feels a thrill coil in her belly at the way his eyes darken and heat as he watches her breasts move.</p><p>“Most are moreso,” she says.</p><p>“I find that difficult to believe,” he says, so fervently that she knows it to be true, and she falls a little in love with him despite herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	first and only

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme prompt: Robb/Dacey with the following image.
> 
>  

It’s ridiculous, she thinks. He’s a boy and she’s a woman more than grown, and she should never have even kissed him that first time. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did, and now it’s happening again, no matter how she knows it shouldn’t, no matter how she knows that if a kiss was wrong, touching him and allowing him to touch her are moreso, without even considering the possibility of sex. But she _is_ considering the possibility of sex. She’s practically desperate for it, and if she intends to resist the urge, she’ll get no help from him; he’s got things set up like this is a great romance of sorts. There are bloody fucking _candles_ , for fuck’s sake.

“We can’t do this,” she says. The impact of her words is lessened by her tongue in his mouth, though, in the snarl of her fingers in his hair to pull his face to hers.

“We _are_ doing this,” he counters, and it’s not as if she can argue, not when his thigh is up between hers and he’s rubbing against her and making her go not a little mad. It’s an injustice, really, that this boy not even sixteen years of age can weaken Dacey so, can make her want more than is wise.

It’s just that he’s so appreciative. Dacey has been with her share of men – girls on Bear Island don’t learn to be coy and prim like they do on the mainland, they know their right to take lovers where and when they please, Westerosi customs be damned – but none so rapt in her body as this boy is, none so ardent and eager and enamored. Dacey always treasured her freedom, guarded it closely, but it strikes her as a bit unfair that no man on Bear Island ever looked at her like this, accustomed as they all were to the favors of women who took what they would. Robb Stark is not accustomed to the favors of women. Robb Stark has no idea what to do with a woman who takes what she will. He looks upon her like she’s a dream tale come to life, something he’s heard of but never truly believed existed. It’s more intoxicating than wine to be looked upon this way, hotter than Dorne in summer when he jerks and whimpers at the touch of her hand after she steals it into his breeches, hotter than the sun itself when he spends after only a squeeze and a handful of strokes. 

“It’s all right, Your Grace,” she says when he flushes crimson and stammers out sounds that he can’t seem to string into words, giving in to him even though she knows it to be wrong. “We’ve a few more hours of dark yet.”

She looks at him as she wipes her hand off on his discarded shirt – perhaps not the nicest surprise for some scrubwoman, but a far easier thing to clean than his sleeping furs. Even as young as he is, he’s handsome, rangy and commanding and compelling. He wears his kindness like a cloak, his honor like armor. He’s stripped bare of any armor now, though, and it makes him seem younger and smaller, almost slight, though he’s near as tall as she is and broader by at least a hand. He’s drawing breath through his nose and expelling it through clenched teeth, his face and chest near as ruddy as his hair. His eyes are dark upon her, the look on his face like he’s never seen a woman before. Thinking on it, Dacey realizes she’s never even seen him so much as glance at any of the women that follow them from camp to camp, women who could be easily enough gotten by the lowest foot soldier, let alone a fair-faced boy king. He’s a curious creature, this Stark boy, and Dacey can’t help but like him, not as her King or her liege lord, but as a person.

“W-what are you doing?” he asks when she moves her fingers to the laces of her tunic, pulling the leather cords free. She only smiles at him, tucking away the reverent look on his face to remember when she’s cold and lonely in the tent she shares with her mother. The low groan that he gives as she strips the tunic over her head to toss aside is enough to warm her even in the cool night air.

“Dacey,” he moans happily, admiringly, his voice rough as sand. “Are all women as beautiful as you?” She smiles at the sweet question, throws her heavy braid over her shoulder and feels a thrill coil in her belly at the way his eyes darken and heat as he watches her breasts move.

“Most are moreso,” she says.

“I find that difficult to believe,” he says, so fervently that she knows it to be true, and she falls a little in love with him despite herself.

“I’m glad you like the look of me,” she says. “Would you like to find out how I feel?” He swallows hard at her words, his tongue darting out to trace his lower lip.

“Yes, please.” His hand trembles when she takes it up to set at her breast, his fingers instinctively curving, holding her gently enough to make her heart flutter even as she wants a firmer touch.

“Here,” she says. “Like this.” She guides his hand over her, shows him how to press and knead, how to tug on her nipple just how she wants. He’s an apt pupil. Soon she drops her hands entirely to curl into the waist of the breeches that still cling low on his hips, only barely concealing him from her. Her fingertips brush his cock, already growing hard again, and he jerks, pinches firmly enough to wring a moan from her throat. The drop of her head backwards is a hint and he takes it, bringing his mouth to the throat she’s exposed, tasting her skin and sucking to leave dark blooms that she hopes will be covered by her gorget when they ride out tomorrow.

“There are other places you can taste,” she says, and again he takes the hint, dragging his mouth down the slope of her chest, pulling her up on tiptoe and bending her spine back over his forearm to get her breasts up to his mouth. He swirls his tongue about one nipple with a sure touch, then latches on to suck and test her with blunt teeth. Oh yes, she thinks. An apt pupil indeed.

The bed is beneath her shoulders suddenly, the furs brushing soft and thick on her back. Robb wriggles down better, has his head at her breasts, laving and sucking and nipping. She holds his head to her with fingers speared through his hair, opens her knees shamelessly wide to let him settle into her, his weight sweet against the ache between her thighs in a way that only makes it worse.

He’s strong, her King, but his guard is down. It’s not even especially difficult to heave up against him, to roll him to his back so she can straddle him. He blinks in surprise up at her, his eyes glossy, his lips red and swollen, shiny from his own tongue. It’s with no small amount of satisfaction that she watches his eyes fix on her breasts as she raises her arms to unwind her braid, his hands settling on her thighs to flex and squeeze. Her hair settles warm over her shoulders and back. It spills down to her elbows and Robb reaches for it, wraps a length about his fist and gives it a gentle tug that makes her scalp prickle. When her fingers move to the lacings of her breeches, his hand only tightens and tugs harder. She pulls at the laces, opens her breeches in a vee as far as they’ll go; she wears no smallclothes beneath, and she knows he sees only skin and the dark thatch of hair at her sex, disappearing under the cloth. She sets both hands at her hips and looks at him in challenge, a challenge that he takes faster than a blink, his free hand tracing the edge of the vee before sliding beneath to touch her with trembling fingers.

“ _Gods_ , Dacey,” he moans. “You’re so hot. You’re _wet_.”

“Does that trouble you?” she asks, her words teasing, only the barest unsteadiness in her voice at the feel of his fingers on her, inside her, moving just enough to make her restless and achy.

“It drives me mad,” he says, pushing his fingers deeper, touching and exploring her, the look on his face akin to reverence. Oh, the things she could teach this boy, Dacey thinks. The things she could show him. But she shouldn’t. She’s not some common camp follower and this isn’t Bear Island, where it would be beneath notice for her to take a lover. His men would look on her differently if they knew, they would leer and sneer and mistrust her, she knows they would. But he wouldn’t, Robb never would, and it makes it harder to remember what’s so wrong about this.

She lets him tease her up and up, guiding his hand with hers when he needs it, letting her hands fall away to lay them behind her on his knees when he doesn’t, leveraging herself to move her hips into his touch, to get him deeper and faster and just where she needs him. When she’s trembling and wobbling on the cusp of her release, she moves aside to wriggle her breeches off, frees him from his own, and before he can say or do anything about it, she sinks on to him, guiding his cock inside her and shuddering from head to toe. She can feel the laces from his breeches pressing into her arse, can feel his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises as he pushes up into her, sighing out moan after appreciative moan. 

“Please,” he says, sounding every bit like the boy he is, the sweetest boy, a boy to break her heart. “Please, oh, _oh_.” Knowing he’s right there and ready, she squeezes around him, pulls up to milk his release from him, and he’s jerking and spending, his whole body quivering and his mouth stretched open in a soundless oh. It only takes a few more brushes of her fingers to have her joining him; she curls forward with the strength of her release, her hair falling about the two of them like a dark curtain. They could be the only two people in the world. Maybe they are.

She allows herself to curl at his side when she slides from him, twitching the furs up to cover them both. He catches her to him with a gesture so easy and practiced she could forget he’s not had a woman before, that she’s the first and so far the only. That’s a thought too dangerous by half, and she chases it away, focuses only on the rhythm of his breath, the thrum of his heart under her cheek.

The pleasure comes in her dream, a wave of bliss rolling and breaking on her, shuddering through her body at high tide. She blinks awake, cries out even before her eyes adjust to the gloom. His mouth is at her neck just behind her ear, where it’s most sensitive. His hand is in her cunt, already an expert at her, already skilled in touching her and bringing her to completion.

“I really shouldn’t do this again,” she says when he rolls atop her, hot and heavy, his cock hard along her belly.

“But you will,” he says, and it’s no command, no order from her King, only a boy’s hopeful request, the sweetest sort of plea. That’s what makes it impossible for her to say no.

“But I will,” she echoes and then she kisses him, parting her legs and welcoming him inside, and she knows it won’t be anywhere close to the last time.


End file.
